


Blackbird

by clarkia (charmtion)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: ... and is Loved, AU, Birdsong, F/M, Fluff and Smut, POV Second Person, POV Shane Walsh, Power Couple, Sexual Content, Shane Walsh Lives, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 21:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/clarkia
Summary: Warrior, he is. Body of one. All blunt edges, hard clean lines. Face of one, too. Rugged nose, square jaw, squint to cut you in half — all of that toughness blighted by the little twist of red, white and blue tucked behind his ear.You smile, trace the wildflowers with a fingertip, remember the glower he gave as you slipped them into place once he’d come back from perimeter-checks last night...World’s turned to shit, but the birds still sing — and there are moments of light and love amongst all the darkness.





	Blackbird

He finds her on the hillside, sat amongst the wildflowers. She’s picked a few, woven them into plaits and twists and braids. Red and white and blue, wrapped like an old flag around her fingers. Listening, her head tilted just a little to one side, lips parted, lungs full of summer air that doesn’t taste quite so sweet these days.

“Funny, ain’t it,” he rumbles. “That the birds still sing.”

“Blackbird.” Cheek lifts a little as she turns her head toward him; like dawn-light, that glimmer of a smile. “Take more than the end of the world to shut him up.”

Cocks a brow. “That right, ma’am?”

“That’s right, officer.”

“Officer wouldn’t argue with a good lady now, would he?”

“Damn right he wouldn’t — be wasting his time anyway.”

“Mmm, true. Good lady’s always right. Then, now... always.”

Something soft behind the smirk he hefts. Bleeding shadows in his dark eyes, smoothing out the lines furrowing his brow. He sits beside her, sinks into the wildflowers, the red, white and blue. Her fingers find the nape of his neck; tips of them tapping against the shorn hair, the sun-browned skin. Leans into her touch, closes his eyes a moment. Hears her sigh — then feels it, lips skating the shell of his ear, the pulse-point just beneath it.

“Still singing,” she says softly. “Aren’t we, Shane?”

Opens his eyes, hooks a hand on her jaw, gently levels her face with his own. Breathes her breath, tastes the sweetness of her sigh on his tongue. Pulls back, brow to brow, as the blackbird whistles out his tune.

“Still singing, baby girl.”

*

Summer rain, soft as falling leaves. You watch it pitter-patter at the window, wind wet trails that your fingers itch to chase. Some relic of childhood, long-dormant want to guide the raindrop down the glass, feel like it’s _you_ deciding its path, choosing its fate. Stirring beside you in the bed. You slide the blind shut, look over your shoulder.

Combat boots still on. Shirtless. Half-hanging off the bed’s edge, gun in his hand, cradled to his chest. Ball of one foot braced on the floor; creak at the door, crack at the window, he’d be up and out and ready, gun cocked, half-grumbled shout to make you _stay put_. Warrior, he is. Body of one. All blunt edges, hard clean lines. Face of one, too. Rugged nose, square jaw, squint to cut you in half — all of _that_ toughness blighted by the little twist of red, white and blue tucked behind his ear.

You smile, trace the wildflowers with a fingertip, remember the glower he gave as you slipped them into place once he’d come back from perimeter-checks last night. Laugh now, can’t help it. Soft as the summer rains; still, it wakes him. Screws his face up like a newborn seeing light for the first time, rubs a hand across his eyes, grumbling. You lean over, rob the sound from his lips, knees parting as you sit astride him, fingers sinking into the quilt as you brace your hands either side of his head.

“Time is it?”

Little edge to your voice as he strokes a curl behind your ear. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.”

“A while off, huh?”

Roll his lip between your teeth. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You hungry, baby girl?”

“Then, now... always.”

Threads his fingers into your hair, gives a gentle jag that sets you mewling. Push up from the bed, hands trailing to his chest as you rock back to sit across the hard lines of his hipbones. Follows you, fist still wrapped in your hair, then pushes you onto your back; hot, hard belly pressing against you, free hand slipping the shirt up over your ribcage. Bends to sear a kiss where the two sides splay apart. Breath hitches in your throat, rattles the bones caught between his kisses. Tongue now — white-hot roll of it — sliding the underside of your left breast, sweeping across your nipple.

“Shane,” breathe it, voice begging. “Mmm, _Shane_.”

Doesn’t say anything; rumble of laughter as he parts his lips, plays and purses and plucks till your nipple is hard as ice. Other one aching for his mouth. Can’t ask, can only moan. Sweeps across as if he hears your thoughts, sucks and swirls his tongue round the tip till your head is tipped back amongst the pillows, legs parting wide beneath his bulk, fingers at his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his ears. Lobes rubbed between finger and thumb, belly knitting as he groans against you.

“Feel good, honey?” he whispers. “That feel good?”

“Feels good, baby. _So_ good.”

“So fuckin’ perfect, ain’t you?” Rubs his nose back and forth as he kisses and sucks; pulls back from your nipple a moment, meets your eyes over the rise and fall of your breasts. “So fuckin’ perfect. My girl. Mmm, my baby girl.”

“Want you.” Rough in your throat, voice rising up as you struggle to your elbows. “Want you inside me—”

“Not yet.” Leans you back with the weight of his body as he rests on his forearm beside your head. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.” Glimmer of laughter in his eyes to match the smile pulling at your lips. “So not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”

Nod slightly, drunk on the fire in his eyes. “Not yet.”

Soft sound in his throat at your whispered agreement. Hazy gaze, cheeks flushed as if you’ve sunk a quart of whiskey. Feels like you have. Skin is burning; heat spreads fiery fingers in your belly, blooms white-hot between your thighs. Hand lying limp on the pillows beside your head, but now your fingers stir to touch. Like a butterfly, the way they flutter up, trip along the ridge of his cheekbone, slide down over his parted lips.

“I want you.”

He closes his eyes at your murmur. “I know, baby. Want you, too.” Opens them again; they flicker from your mouth to your throat to your eyes resting lazy on his own. “Just lemme look for a while. Mmm, just lemme look at you.” Fingers pull free from your hair, splay across your heart. “So good. And warm. And _mine_.”

“Yours.” Like a prayer, the way you whisper it. “Then, now... _always_ yours, Shane Walsh.” Lift up a little, cant your hips so you press against his belly: mark it, hot and wet. “Just like you’re mine. Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing. Long as there’s breath in my lungs.”

Kisses the air from them, just for a moment. Leaves you gasping a little as he pulls back, sinks down your body, drops to his knees beside the bed, pulls your hips to the edge. Legs looped over his shoulders, breath barely clawed back before it billows from you in a moan as his mouth closes on that white-hot bloom between your thighs.

Want to curse — _fuck, mmm, Shane, fuck_ — but you can’t form words. Not yet. Can only feel. Plush mouth on your pussy, tongue dragging between hot wet folds, lips closing on your clit, sucking it slow and soft and sloppy till an empty keening sound cracks your throat. Can hear, too. Him humming against your hot flesh. Rain at the window, soft as falling leaves. Somewhere — _somewhere_ — that damn blackbird, trilling out a happy little song even as water washes away all the colours — red and white and blue — of the wildflowers blooming on the hill outside.

“Still singing.” He pulls back a little, warm breath misting, making you tilt your hips, scrabble at his scalp with your fingers. “Ain’t we, sweetheart?”

Can’t speak. Can only hum and sigh and trill your own little tune as he sucks you back into his mouth. Fighting with the blackbird now, the song you make as you grind against that teasing, probing tongue, fall apart beneath the strong fingers gripping your thighs. Answer to his question — _yes, Shane, yes, yes_ — the only lyric that makes sense now waves of heat are cresting, bursting through their banks, ebbing every inch of your body till you’re warm and full and thick as whiskey set on a campfire to bubble and blister and _burst_ —

“Attagirl.” Grins against your hipbone, thumb circling where his tongue has whipped up the flame, soft, so soft, till you’ve come down from your climax, thighs quaking against his head. “That’s my sweet girl.” Sticky kisses on salty skin. “What do we think?” Glances up to look at you as you make a grab for his jaw. “Dawn still a while off?”

“Yes.” Wrestle a grip on him as he ducks and laughs; gives up with good grace as you squirm your way back onto the bed, drag him along, too. “Inside. _Now_, Shane.” Fingers scrabbling at his belt, eyes closing as he helps: thumb brushing your wrist, chuckle soft in your ear over the jingle of the belt-buckle, the rasp of your palm against his jeans. “Please. Baby, please.” Keep singing it even when you’ve wrapped your thighs round his back, fingers digging at his nape, his shoulder as he pushes inside you. “Please, please, please.”

“Still singing.” Crooned in your ear, breath hissing past his teeth as he sets his pace: slow and deep and full. So full you feel fused to him, slotted together, welded like metal-melt: key in a lock, palm to palm, mountains to the sky. “Mmm... you sure do make a prettier sound than that damn blackbird.” 

Look up at him through half-closed eyes. “That right, officer?”

“Uh-huh.” Meets your searching lips; you feel his smile widen as you open your mouth to his kiss. “That’s right, ma’am.”

*

Leaves her sleeping as dawn breaks over the hills. Turns her to honey; sunlight slipping through a gap in the blinds, limning the drops on the rain-streaked glass. Watches her a moment as he slides his belt back through the denim loops, pulls a shirt over his head. Flinches as something brushes his neck. Hand on his gun, feet braced to turn and fight — but it’s not a foe.

Flowers. Red and white and blue. Little braid she pushed behind his ear before the rain-clouds dimmed the starlight. Turns it in his fingers. Old flag, the way it slowly unfurls: red and white and blue. Closes his fist.

Grass is damp when he steps out of the RV. Dew-trails follow him as he cuts a path to the hillside she sat on yesterday. Sunlight on her patch of wildflowers, stems shivering free of waterdrops as the air slowly warms. Blackbird singing somewhere in the trees. Opens his fingers, lets the breeze pick up the petals from his palm. Red and white and blue. Flag unfurled, colours carried on the sky, scattered on the hillside.

“Wish we didn’t have to leave.. I like it here.”

Doesn’t turn, just holds out his arm, smiles as she nestles in beneath it. “Me too. Quiet here. Peaceful.” Rasps his thumb across the bare skin of her shoulder. “Almost like the world’s the way it was. No walkers... mmm, no wars between brothers.” Noses at her piled hair, presses a kiss to her temple. “But I got you, baby girl. I _always_ got you.” Slips his hand onto her cheek, pushes at her chin with his thumb till she’s looking up at him, sunlight sparkling in her eyes. “You got me?”

“Long as there’s breath in my lungs.” Lifts to her tiptoes, rubs her nose against his own, smile tilting her cheeks. “Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing.”

“Take more’n the end of the world to shut him up.”

“That right?”

“That’s right, baby girl... c’mon, time to go.”

Fingers linked between his, tug on his wrist that keeps him from turning. “Not yet, baby. Let’s stay a little longer.” Bright eyes, sun cresting the hillside, wildflowers blooming at their ankles: red and white and blue. “Just... not yet. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” murmurs his agreement, lifts their interlocked fingers to his lips, ghosts a kiss across her knuckles as the blackbird sings. “Not yet, sweetheart.”  
  


* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Stopped watching the Walking Dead sometime after season 6. Haven’t seen it in years — but this little set of scenes just popped into my head so vividly yesterday that I had to write it down. ✨ Wildflowers on a hillside, sun-drenched morning, bit of softness for a character I always thought suffered quite a lot in his own way. Thought I may as well share it; hopefully someone finds a semblance of the enjoyment I felt writing it whilst reading it! If you do, feel free to leave feedback — I _always_ reply to comments etc. ❤️


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